Predictable
by ingrid-matthews
Summary: After Watson moves out, Holmes is outnumbered and badly beaten during a case. Watson decides that this isn't acceptable.


Title: Predictable  
Author: Ingrid Matthews  
Rating: R (for violence)  
Pairing: Watson/Holmes  
Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, drama, romance  
Summary: After Watson moves out, Holmes is outnumbered and badly beaten during a case. Watson decides that this isn't acceptable.

0o0

His life has a predictability to it now, not unlike the army.

John Watson rises at sixty-thirty, breakfasts at seven and sees his first patient at eight, right after his mandatory hour of paperwork and preparation. His kisses his wife goodbye at seven-twenty and spends all of his free time - the little there is of it - wondering why he longs for distraction with all of his heart.

In the army he had war to break the monotony, at least. And after that ...

No, there was nothing good about the 'after that'. After that was an unproductive decade of following a Bohemian madman around London. It was a life of such wild _unpredictability_ he should get down on his knees every day and thank God for the end of it.

Except he's not exactly thankful and he's not exactly content, but this is what society insists is best for him and John Watson is nothing if not a man who believes in the prescription of the majority.

That's why when Anstruther greets him that morning on the street as he's going out to pick up his newspaper from the landing he expects nothing more than a short greeting and perhaps an anecdote about the latest in medical advancements.

But Anstruther does no such thing. "A shame about your friend, Watson."

The alarm bells clang at top volume through Watson's soul, but he keeps his expression neutral. "Pardon?"

Anstruther tilts his head at him oddly. "Your friend, the detective fellow. Stamford told me about his arrival at hospital and the surgeries that followed. I'm surprised he survived, but with you there, I suppose I shouldn't be."

The newspaper in Watson's hand begins to shake. "I wasn't there," he says, already of half a mind to take off down the road to Baker Street, undressed as he is. "I ... haven't seen Holmes recently."

"Oh." Anstruther looks embarrassed and shrugs. "Well, I heard he survived, I think. Good thing that. Ah, look at the time. I must be off. Good day, Watson." He tips his hat and takes off quickly down the road without looking back.

It's like the bad old days when Watson rushes inside. He throws on his coat and grabs his Gladstone bag, but this time he leaves at seven-twelve, without kissing his wife good-bye.

0o0

Holmes stares at him balefully, with the one eye that isn't swollen shut.

"Anstruther's an ass," he proclaims and proceeds to ignore Watson's frantic examination.

Three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a possible hairline fracture of the skull and that is just the start of what lies beneath the masses of deep bruising and hideous lacerations, one of them marring Holmes' handsome face, perhaps permanently.

Watson's hand shakes as he changes dressings that are too old by at least a day. He doesn't reply to Holmes' huffing and puffing - his own rage is choking him. Rage at those who _dared_ to do this, because he knows it was more than one, more than five probably and that they attacked Holmes unawares, as is obvious from the severe bruising covering his back.

There's even a _boot mark_ on his neck and Watson thinks he's going to break the next inanimate object that has the bad luck to come into his grip.

Holmes annoyed look fades into something more resembling worry. "So, " he begins uneasily, trying for a casual attitude. "How is Mrs. Watson? Good, I hope."

Unfortunately for him, he's understandably a bit off his acting game and besides, Watson is in no mood for small talk. "Who did it? Give me a name of the leader, that's all I need," he says shortly, dabbing carbolic on a deep cut covering Holmes' fair hand. His _beautiful_ hand and Watson's fury grows to boiling.

"There's no point to that, Doctor," Holmes replies, using Watson's formal title, probably to distract. "They are unworthy of any more attention. Forget trying to obtain any information."

Forget it? More fool him, Watson thinks, as he will get their names and where they are if not from Holmes, then from Lestrade. If not from Lestrade, then from the Devil himself if he must.

They are going to _pay_ for what they've done.

"Watson," Holmes tries again, grasping his hand. "Please let me handle this once I'm in fighting shape again. It's far too precarious and you are destined for better things. The life you have now is too precious to waste on such danger. This is _my_ battle, not yours and I'm very sorry you felt compelled to come here at all."

For the first time he can remember, he ignores Holmes completely. Instead, Watson rises and pours out two brandies, one for himself and one for Holmes. "We can do this the easy, genial way, dearest Holmes or I can get the information out of a Yarder which I promise you I will, and you know I have yet to break an oath."

"Lestrade has explicit instructions ..."

"I will beat Lestrade to the point where he will no longer feel bound to follow your 'instructions', which will end badly for me once I'm forced to turn myself in after the business is done," Watson says calmly, sipping his brandy. "This is another oath, I tell you. Now, will you give me a name?"

"Watson! Stop being so foolish!" Holmes cries, his eyes flashing, but Watson remains unmoved. "They did this to me, how do you think you will fare?"

"Better, I hope, as I will have the element of surprise on my side, which was against you, obviously. Either way, they will not escape me no matter how you protest. Again, I ask for a name."

Holmes' eyes are wide. He shakes his head. "John, please. I swore to myself that you would be free of me as I know you have promised to yourself. Now you say you are an oath keeper ..."

"I have never sworn to give you up as my friend," Watson replies, a sharp pang of guilt piercing his heart. "A friend who will defend you from attacks such as this, now and in the future. I must be sure they cannot perform this awful deed again."

At this Holmes hesitates. There is actual _fear_ lining his features, no doubt fear of his current state of helplessness which makes Watson so furious he thinks he will die of rage. "Please don't," Holmes whispers. "I cannot bear ..."

Watson hurls his drink into the fire, where the glass shatters against the coals. He places himself at Holmes' side on the settee and carefully grasps his bruised face between his hands. "You cannot bear? Think of what I cannot bear, my dear, which is the thought of this atrocity not being avenged. I've asked for very little during our association so give me this one thing I must have." He leans in and kisses Holmes' forehead with all the gentleness he can muster. "Let me atone for my absence as I must, please."

Holmes' split lips trembles. "Why do you ask of me the one thing I cannot do?"

Watson regards him with more fondness - more _love_ - than he's felt for anyone, ever. Even ...

"Because I am more like you than either one of us would like to admit," Watson whispers and brings their foreheads together, so close their eyelashes brush. He kisses the corner of Holmes' dear mouth, the one that is finally whispering the name he needs.

o0o

The gang he hunts down to their underground hideout are dumber, uglier and larger than he could have imagined and Watson's imagination is quite lively indeed.

Deadlier too, but he has experience and unspeakable anger on his side. He stabs the first one who lunges at him in the femoral artery, a fatal wound that stuns the others with a terrible torrent of blood and makes the floor slippery to boot.

It's an ugly move, one he should regret, but his soldier's soul is filled with savage joy at the sight. These fools are clumsy in their evil, missing the wickedly daring grace of his opponents in Afghanistan, men who fought beautifully to the very end, as much as he was loathe to admit, at least while stuck on the losing side.

The doctor laughs aloud at the one who tries to pull a folding blade on him and ducks down to slice the brute's Achilles tendons - both of them - in half. The screams are bloodcurdling and confusion takes the place of cocky assurance in their numbers. They back away and glance around for escape, but Watson's already barricaded the back door from the outside long before he came in, as they find out in a frantic rush of panic.

He blocks the doorway of the only exit, his sword and cane in hand. The room is now not unlike a hell of Dante's making where it is easy to enter, but woe to he who wants to leave.

"Who the devil are you?" one of them screams as Watson takes care of his friend with a blow that shatters the lower half of his jaw.

"I'm Doctor Watson," he replies calmly and everything _clicks_ then, making him want to shout for joy. "The companion of Sherlock Holmes. And this ..." he says, slashing down viciously with his sword, slicing across the villain's face, down over his brutish knuckles, marring him for life. "Is what happens to those who hurt my friend."

The man gurgles in horrified shock before passing out. Watson barely spares him a glance before stepping over the sprawled pile of bodies and leaves, as neatly as he came in.

0o0

Lestrade examines the bloody, moaning pile of gang members that's discovered some hours later. "What goes around, comes around," he tells Clarky in what might considered a very philosophical way.

Clarky nods. "Not a great loss, sir."

"Not as great as ours would have been," Lestrade whispers so only Clarky can hear, thus proving himself a smarter man than Clarky could have ever guessed.

Holmes recovers, eventually, accepting Watson's care for weeks afterward. The doctor has given over his practice to Anstruther for the time being and his hours have turned most irregular, irritating Mary Watson who accepts his frequent absences with the grit teeth and cold silence of a proper English wife.

A year of this passes. Mary starts visiting her cousins in America, a trip that takes her away for months at a time. Watson agrees cheerfully - nothing like having a family, he tells her - and he starts sleeping at Baker Street again.

Except he no longer uses his old bedroom. Holmes' is warmer, the company better and it's all less ... _predictable_. He sleeps in with Holmes snoring against his chest. He goes on cases again merely to watch the silly fool's back and he beats the living daylights out of anyone who threatens the detective, because that is what he was born to do.

Eventually, Doctor Watson loses track of time and it's then that he realizes that he's _living_, as he never has before.

He is distracted, from the mundane phantom of mortality he loathes. He writes, god how he writes, as Holmes watches him, his perfect visage shadowed by a warm hearth while the love he views him with is reflected tenfold in the flickering light.

0o0

end

**Thank you for reading! Reviews are welcome.**


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